Murder in the Eleventh House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “I’m hungry,” said Johnny. “I didn’t eat before we left.”

  Melinda opened the minirefrigerator. “There’s some juice, carrots, a few cookies and some yogurt.”

  Johnny wrinkled her nose.

  Melinda handed her a yogurt and a spoon. “Here, start with this.”

  Johnny reluctantly took the offering. She opened it and sniffed, scooping a bit out. “Hey,” she said, eating just what was on the tip of the spoon, “I don’t mean to pry, but like your old man’s really rich.” She ate the rest of what was on the utensil and dipped it again.

  “Yes,” said Melinda, matter-of-factly, “he’s quite well-off.”

  “We talked about some of it. He bought oil futures and made a fortune.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s very smart, huh?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He and your mom divorced?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Johnny dipped her spoon in and twirled it, mixing the fruit and the yogurt together. She licked the spoon catlike, reaching her tongue around it rather than turning it. “Does he date anyone?”

  Melinda laughed. “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know. It’s not something we talk about.”

  “Oh.” She ate another spoonful of yogurt and pointed at the control panel. “What are all these gadgets?”

  “This is his office on wheels. Everything he needs to do his work is here, so please don’t touch anything.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” She scowled. “I’m not stupid, you know. I just didn’t have the education you had.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply…”

  Johnny held up her hand. “That’s all right. I’m a little touchy these days, that’s all. And I’m nervous, that’s all… oh damn it.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “When I get nervous I start to repeat a phrase over and over again and I can’t stop myself, that’s all. See? I did it again, that’s all, that’s all, that’s all…” She physically held her mouth shut with her hands.

  “Try not to worry. I believe you’re innocent, and my father will help me prove it. Now try to relax.”

  “How can I?”

  Melinda raised the windows and started fiddling with the knobs on the console. “This might help. What’s your favorite place in the world?”

  “The ocean. I wish I were there now.”

  “Ever been to California?”

  “Yeah, twice. I loved it, especially the coastline.”

  “Well, sit back and just relax. Andy, could we take a little ride?”

  “Sure.” He raised the glass barrier to maximize the effects of the system.

  Melinda hit the ON button and the windows darkened for a moment. Then they lit up with the scene of a perfect day on the California coastal highway, she heard Johnny utter a very subdued “Wow.”

  Then there was silence.

  ***

  Andy brought Johnny into Lowell’s office. “I dropped Melinda off at her office. I’m going up to the kitchen for some of Julia’s amazing coffee.”

  Johnny smiled at Lowell. “That’s some car you got. Those windows are amazing.”

  Lowell was watching a muted CNN. “You like it, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s fuck…

  Lowell frowned.

  “…freaking cool.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “You don’t like when I curse?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing it weakens you. Most people don’t hear what you say, only how you say it. There are times when we must use harsh language for effect or perhaps as a defense. Cursing inappropriately shows a lack of control, and that can frighten someone. When you scare people, they are less likely to take you seriously, except as a threat.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Besides, it’s not really who you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t always this angry woman you’ve become. I assume it’s the circumstances you have dealt with that have hardened your personality and forced you to build walls. You don’t trust people, so you act in ways that will push them away. Most people have probably hurt you or let you down. This way you keep them at bay so you won’t be hurt again.”

  Johnny thought about it. “I don’t know about all that,” she replied, “but I’ll try not to curse anymore. At least around you. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Johnny. I’m off for a lunch meeting. Think about what I said about what you say and how to use it as a strength, not a weakness.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Lowell would have preferred to take the subway to Lower Manhattan alone, but until he knew who was stalking him he was force to acquiesce and had Andy drive him to Church Street. Once there, however, he insisted on walking toward the river by himself. Andy would be nearby but this was one trip he felt he had to make alone. It had been years since he came down here, and he needed the chance to stroll through his old stomping grounds and maybe bury an errant ghost or two.

  For ten years he had worked in 2 World Trade Center on the floor of the Mercantile Exchange, the last five while living in Battery Park City after his divorce. He was at work on 9/10. Just because of circumstances, he was uptown on 9/11.

  Everything seemed so different. This part of lower Broadway used to be inundated with commodities brokers, back room desk traders, and hedge fund operators. In those days lunch time on Liberty Street was a hectic flood of trading badges and harried capitalists scurrying to grab a sandwich before the afternoon trading session. Now it was a trickle of local workers. The tension that surrounded this neighborhood like a dust cloud was gone. But what was in its place was far more disconcerting.

  It was when he crossed Church Street and started climbing the makeshift staircase that it really hit him. It wasn’t exactly nostalgia. Those years of struggle didn’t warrant such a response. It was more just sadness of a profound and universal kind. Finally, at least they were rebuilding.

  He walked through the pathway that ran some thirty feet above West Street, connecting this tiny neighborhood built on landfill like a Band-Aid with the rest of Manhattan. He took the escalator down to street level. Battery Park City had grown radically since he’d moved out. The building expansion over the past decade had more than doubled the population. He entered The World Financial Center and walked to the Chinese restaurant.

  They were already seated when Lowell arrived.

  “David Lowell,” said Roger, “George Morris.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Morris.

  “Nice of you to invite me. I’ve been meaning to come down for some time.”

  “Let’s order first,” said Roger. “They get very busy at lunchtime.”

  The waiter took the order.

  “Did you work down here?” asked Morris.

  Lowell nodded. “On the floor of the old Merc.”

  “So Roger says you have some questions regarding real estate deals. How can I help you?”

  “Ever hear of Pilgrim’s Cavern?”

  “No, what is it?”

  Lowell took out the blueprint and laid it across the table. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”

  Morris look at it for a few minutes, uttering an occasional “hmm” or “well, well.” Finally he looked at Lowell.

  “Here,” Morris pointed to the paper, “is a heliport, and here a small landing strip, probably for private planes. It doesn’t look big enough for commercial airliners. This is the symbol for a hotel, and this is an apartment complex, complete with indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts and a golf course. This appears to be situated up in the mountains somewhere on a plateau. There is one road in and out. As the na
me implies, there is a cavern, or more correctly a series of caverns. The caverns themselves are divided into what I believe are storage units, living spaces, and common areas. There is even a cave set aside for livestock, as this rather crude drawing of a cow would attest, though how they would graze them I don’t know.”

  He picked up his tea and took a sip. “What you are looking at is a gold-plated, first-class Noah’s Ark.”

  “That’s about what I figured,” said Lowell.

  “This isn’t the first blueprint of one of these I’ve seen, but it certainly is the most elaborate. These guys are what we call blueblood survivalists.”

  “Name sort of tells it all, huh?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “So what does this all mean?”

  “We are in the middle of the largest land grab since the government gave you seven acres and a mule just for the asking.”

  “What kind of land grab? We’re at in a deep recession. I thought real estate was dead.”

  “Suburban houses and beach front condos aren’t selling. I’m talking about huge chunks of America up for grabs. This has been going on for decades, but it really took off after 9/11. And since the crash of ’08 this sort of thing has been escalating quickly. First of all, states are scrambling to get money anywhere they can before the whole thing falls to crap. They have to pay cops and firemen, and keep the buses running and sewers working. So they’re looking at anyone who still has any money. And believe me, a lot of people do. There’s more money around now than ever before in man’s history, even with the collapse of the equity markets. This country isn’t going out of business; it’s just redefining who owns what.”

  “All right, so there are a lot of wealthy people out there.”

  “And all of them just as scared as the guy living in one room above a deli. There are more and more gated communities with private security forces that could qualify as militias. What with the fears of global warming, social breakdown, riots, nuclear bombs and God knows what else, the rich are purchasing huge chunks of land all over the place. Hollywood stars may own a house in Beverly Hills, but they also have property in Colorado, or Oregon, or freaking Kansas. Nobody trusts the coasts anymore. The richer ones have self-sustaining ranches with generators, huge rooms for stock piling, and security.”

  “Sounds a bit paranoid.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Morris, pointing to the blueprint. “Okay, see this is what I’m talking about. This is set up as a gigantic upper-class survival camp. This sort of thing is going on all over the country, in fact all over the world. But I’ve got to tell you, this one makes the others I’ve seen pale in comparison.”

  “How deep do these caverns go?”

  “There’s no way to tell from these diagrams, but I would guess several miles.”

  “So these people are playing for keeps.”

  “This is a self-contained bit of humanity that could number a thousand families or more and probably would survive a nuclear war.”

  “How much would something like this cost?”

  “Hard to tell, but well in the billions. The buy-in price could be quite high, maybe as much as a hundred million each.”

  Roger had been listening intently. “Quite a high-priced country club.”

  “Maybe, but it offers more than just golf and swimming. It offers survival.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Once you pointed me in the right direction,” said Mort, “I was able to access some obscure state files.”

  The last of the day’s sun was disappearing out the windows of the townhouse office.

  “And what did you find out?”

  “Just like that lawyer said. Pilgrim’s Cavern is situated on a plateau up in the mountains. There’s a single road leading in and out, making it fairly inaccessible, except by that road or by helicopter.”

  “What did you learn about the place?”

  “The town was settled in 1895 by a group of disgruntled people from Salt Lake City. They had grown discontented with the encroaching secular world and found the isolation to their liking, so they went about building a small, isolated community.”

  “Isolated is right.”

  “As the name implies, the town was built near a cavern that is connected into a series of other caverns and caves that extends for miles deep into the mountainside. There’s a fresh-water lake nearby and streams that run through the area, and they were able to produce enough food to survive. There are currently 865 people living there.”

  “Go on.”

  “About three years ago a financial group, Purple Diamond Industries, or P.D.I., submitted plans to buy the town and turn it into an escape for the very wealthy. The plans included a four-star hotel and sporting center with year-round indoor and outdoor sports. It was to be a retreat of the highest caliber, catering only to the elite. Eventually there would be several condo complexes built with prices beginning in the millions. It is quietly being touted as a first-class safe haven with natural protection against any kind of geopolitical disaster.”

  “Roger’s friend was right on the money.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Okay, what else did you learn?”

  “The Pilgrim’s Cavern project was all set to begin this spring. It was expected to take five years to complete, with construction costs priced at between five and six billion dollars.”

  “A bunch of that would have found its way into the state budget, I suppose. Motivation enough. You said it was all set to begin.”

  “That’s right. Most of the lawsuits had been settled or pushed out of the way, and they were just about to award construction contracts.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “As you noted the other day, State Senator Smith had the misfortune to drop dead of a massive coronary before the state legislature had a chance to vote on finalizing the project. Apparently it was a fiercely contested venture with a single swing vote in favor. Various groups, including environmentalists, had lobbied hard against it. If they don’t vote the project in by the first of January, it will go into committee for another year where it may very well die. The governor, who is a Republican, had to pick someone for the open seat.”

  “Interesting,” said Lowell.

  “You’ll never guess who he was about to name as the new state senator.”

  “How many chances do I get?”

  “Only one.”

  “Then I choose our victim, Judge Farrah Winston.”

  “Give the man a cigar,” said Mort, laughing. “But that’s not all. The U.S. Senator from Utah recently announced his retirement, and that seat will be vacated in the election next November.”

  “So, this must have been what Rosen was talking about. They planned on easing her from the state senate to the U.S. Senate. Okay, so what happened after Judge Winston was murdered? Did the governor appoint someone else?”

  “Within a week of her murder,” he looked down at the paper he was holding, “George Ogden was appointed. And yes, he voted in favor of the Pilgrim’s Cavern project.”

  Lowell took this in silently for a moment. “What did you find out about Purple Diamond Industries?”

  “Nothing. They aren’t mentioned anywhere on the web. It’s like they don’t exist.”

  Sarah had been sitting at her desk a few feet away pretending not to eavesdrop. Her curiosity finally got the better of her. “So a group of very rich people have decided to build a survival camp complete with room service. What does that have to do with Judge Winston’s murder? And how does that help us save poor Johnny?”

  “I don’t know, yet,” said Lowell.

  “I have another question,” said Sarah. “How could they possibly get rid of the 865 descendants who live in the town?”

  “I
would guess a lot of brown paper bags exchange hands.”

  “Hardly seems fair,” said Sarah. “So again, what does that mean for us?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lowell, “but at least it gives us something to work with. Mort, what do we know about the investors in the project?”

  “Absolutely nothing, yet. My guess is it’s all been put through a shell company meant to misdirect any curious eyes.

  “Get to work on it. Let’s see if you can follow the trail back to the rat’s nest. We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s not waste any.”

  “I’ll go change into my hunter outfit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Andy picked up Lowell, Melinda, and Johnny after a long day in court, a lot of it spent waiting, and drove them uptown to the townhouse. Since it began serving as the temporary address of Starlight Detective Agency, all five floors including the basement were in full use.

  Sarah and Mort were in the den watching the evening news when they arrived. Lowell tossed his leather jacket onto a tall wooden coat rack in the hallway.

  “You’re on TV!” Mort shouted.

  Lowell and Melinda were on TV exiting the courtroom.

  “Why did your client kill Judge Winston?” The reporter’s microphone inches from Melinda’s face.

  “Was this a vengeance killing? Or was there more to it?”

  “Was she the judge’s lover?” asked the reporter from Fox.

  “No comment,” said Melinda repeatedly to the camera, her face filling the screen.

  “Would you mind shutting that thing off?” Lowell turned and left the room and headed downstairs to his office.

  Melinda gave a look at Sarah and Mort that said don’t ask. Lowell didn’t like being on TV. It never amounted to anything good.

  ***

  Lowell was back upstairs in five minutes. The group was sitting around the dinning room table.

  “I was just about to call you. Dinner is ready,” said Julia, as she served Lowell a plate of organic multigrain pasta with a rich homemade all-organic sauce